Sherlock Holmes Read Online Free PDF

associate, Dr. John Watson.”
    The man raised an eyebrow, and glanced from one of us to the other. “I take it then, gentlemen, that your visit relates to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of Mr. Herbert Grange?” asked the man, who I now took to be a most well-informed butler-cum-receptionist.
    “You surmise correctly, sir,” replied Holmes, with a gracious bow of his head. “We have some questions regarding his last known movements, and I wish to examine his office if you would grant me leave.”
    The man gave a curt nod. “Please wait, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, while I consult with my superiors.”
    He reached for a telephone receiver, which he plucked from its cradle between finger and thumb as if it were something distasteful. He dialled a number, and waited. A moment later, I heard the crackle of a voice on the other end, although I was unable to discern the precise words.
    “Mr. Bates,” said the receptionist. “I have two gentlemen here, claiming to be representatives of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”
    A pause.
    “Yes, that’s right, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and associate. They wish to speak with someone regarding the death of Mr. Grange.” He listened intently, and then placed the receiver back in the cradle.
    “Sergeant Bates will be with you momentarily,” he said.
    “My thanks,” said Holmes.
    We moved away from the reception desk while we waited, so as not to be overheard.
    “Well, Holmes,” I said. “That was somewhat easier than I expected. Although I wonder if invoking the name of your brother might perhaps count as cheating.”
    Holmes allowed a smile to twitch at the edge of his lips.
    “A truly great detective makes use of all the many weapons in his arsenal, Watson. My brother is nothing if not comprehensive.
    Mark my words, his fingerprints are all over this matter. I have no doubt that we are expected.”
    As if in confirmation of Holmes’s theory, the door opened and a man in a black suit appeared. He approached us, his eyes lowered. “You are very welcome, sirs,” he said. “My name is Bates. Sergeant John Bates, retired.” He puffed out his chest as he delivered this piece of information, clearly proud of his former career. It was heartening to see. “I am to remain in your company for the duration of your visit. I shall escort you to the late Mr. Grange’s office. You may ask your questions of his secretary, Miss Millicent Brown.”
    “Most satisfactory,” said Holmes.
    The man inclined his head. “If you’d like to come this way,” he said, beckoning for us to follow. He showed us through another door, which opened onto a long corridor. The floor was lined with plush red carpet, the walls with yet more portraiture. I couldn’t shake the notion that the figures in the paintings, peering down at us with their strict military bearing, were watching our every movement.
    “Afghanistan?” I ventured, catching up to the fellow as he led us past innumerable offices, some of them apparently inhabited, others silent and empty.
    “Yes, sir,” said Bates.
    I nodded. “Yes, me too.” I smiled. “It seems a long time ago, now.”
    “Yes, sir,” confirmed Bates. He stopped abruptly, and I nearly stumbled as I caught myself from marching on ahead of him. “This is Mr. Grange’s office, gentlemen,” he said, indicating a glass-panelled door. A small, brass name plaque confirmed his assertion. He knocked twice, and then turned the handle, poking his head around the door.
    “Ah, Miss Brown. I hope you’ll be amenable to helping two gentlemen who have come to enquire about Mr. Grange’s unfortunate…” He trailed off, struggling to find the appropriate words. “Well, they wish to ask you some questions.”
    “I’ve already spoken to the police, Sergeant Bates,” came the quiet, hesitant reply. “But if you think it might help, then of course. Please, show them in.”
    Bates pushed the door open for us and waved us through. I found myself leading the way.
    The